


Cresce

by ladytrollfishes (tangelotime)



Series: Standalone Character Drabbles [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, THIS IS A FANTROLL THING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-08-26 05:10:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16675114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangelotime/pseuds/ladytrollfishes
Summary: Cresce aka Cress is an aspiring singer song writer whose biggest dream is to be a big pop star and write her own material. She also was raised as an interrogator and spy by the empire and she's determined to combine the two the best she can. She's passive aggressive, prissy, and attention seeking.Here's some drabbles about her.





	1. Chapter 1

_Cresce Aubade | 3 sweeps, 7 years | The village of Moonsrot, Ketera | 1392 words_

—-

Your name is Cresce Aubade and you are three sweeps old, almost four.

You hold up your fingers against the setting moon and count them, stretched out in front of you, your fingers black against the green moon.

One, two, three, four.

That would be you soon. You would be an adult at ten- you unfold your other six fingers next to the previous four, a pair of shadowed wings in the moonset. That doesn’t seem like so much when you look at it that way. You’ve already done four, and six was almost the same as four. The sooner you were an adult, the sooner you could leave.   
  
You don’t like the people in town, and they don’t like you. Too many people made your spine scrape together like a knife down a plate. And if you ever talked to just one person, they were afraid of you, the little indigoblood, the only indigoblood for miles.

Adults could do what they wanted, you know. They could walk away forever if they had the mind to! Go find friends who would like them. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to leave- turn around and never come back! You had made a half-hearted plan with your lusus, But she had disappeared two week ago and had never came back. You shed some tears, and waited, but you were losing hope now. It wasn’t like you couldn’t care for yourself, but this way you were lonely.

You brush your curls back behind your ear, and watch the green moon set over the ocean. The sun would be out soon, chasing down the pink moon, so you hurry up, gathering your legs underneath you as you scurry off back to find your hive through the town. You scowl, flouncing as you bounce down the gravel path as you hear people shrink back behind their corners to avoid you. It’s not a very big place, the hives worn and pockmarked with the salty sea wind, and only a couple stores around. All the other trolls are yellow and green, not even a blue around. You’re not stupid, you know you’re supposed to be better than them, and you can hear that they’re afraid that you’ll hurt them, but they won’t even give you a chance to show them you won’t.

Cowards, you think, snide. No troll worthy of a second thought. They would probably be culled before they became real adults and not just bigger children.

Your hive is just outside of town, up on a hill that sits above town. It’s a bit of a climb but one that you’re used to. The stones of the gravel road thin out to dirt and you climb up the stepping stones up the hill as you return to hive.

As you draw near, you can hear someone nearby. Someone whose not afraid. You can two tunes, a twiddle of a flute, confusion, and the lower thudding of frustration. They’re not a very pretty, but you feel your own pumper thump twice. You can hear a knock, as though someone was banging on  _your_  hive door. Someone is here to see  _you_.

“Hello?” you call, as you climb up the hill to see your visitors. They’re both bigger than you, by a lot, the keratin of their horns spiraling up and out from their heads, much, much bigger than yours. They turn towards you. They’re wearing uniforms, imperial, black and white and pretty. One of them lowers a pair of dark shades from beneath a white cap to reveal a set of irises that match the yellow of the rest of their eyes, the pupils still a pinprick in the middle. Their eyes are filled in.

You glance at the other one. Blue eyes, a dark and heavy blue, set deep under a hard brow. There’s a scar running from the side of his nose down to his lip.

Adults. They’re both adults.

“Minnra Hanran?” The blueblood asks, expectation in his tone and hope in his voice.

You blink once, twice, and then your cheeks burn, your fists balled up at your hips. “I am not,” you say, drawing to your full height and tossing your curls. “I’m Cres. That is my hive,” you say, pointing, like you see the Empress do in the movies, “And I’ve never hear of this Minnra.”

A double dirge of disappointment blasts from the two of them, which only makes you angrier. How dare they? They’re just looking at each other, dumber than two birds in a box, and you’re sick of craning your neck up to look at them so you scramble to the nearest rock and climb it, put your fists on your hips and glare at them.

“What’s so important about Minnra?” you suggest hotly.

The adults exchange a glance with each other before you hear a twist and twiddle of amusement- they’re  _laughing_ at you, and you stomp your foot again.

“Miss Cres, was it?” the yellowblood says, approaching with their hand on their chest, a slight bow. “My most sincere apologies. I certainly don’t mean to offend.”

You don’t know what ‘offend’ means, but you certainly don’t tell them that.

“Then tell me who you are,” you say.

“I am Cimrin Rutger,” the yellowblood says. “And this is my partner, Gajani Pestil.”

“We’re on imperial business,” Gajani says. “We are recruiters from the Imperial Psion Corp, looking for Minnra. If you don’t know where she is, perhaps you might know who would?”

Recruiters? You feel a hot flash cross your face and a burning in your gut. Recruitment being an adult, leaving town. Recruitment would have meant other recruits, even, new people to make friends with. You guess Minnra is a psion, and you’re not, so you can’t go, but the unfairness of it burns in your throat.

“No,” you say, and hop off the rock so you can go hive, striding between the two to your door. “I don’t.”

“Well,” Cimrin says, playing a melody you can’t quite discern. “How about you? Nothing’s important about Minnra if she’s not here, and well, here you are instead.”

You turn halfway, staring suspiciously at the two adults. You don’t know what they’re feeling, not with words. You hear a slow build, the kind of music that makes you sit closer to your edges, in case something happens. A few notes of disappointment? Gajani sounds like disapproval maybe, but the kind that waits to see what happens.

“I’m not a psion,” you say shortly.

“Psychics and voodoos count too,” Cimrin says. They tap their shades again. “My little gift tells me that you have them, and powerful ones too. There’s a place for you with us, if you want it.”

You can’t stop the leap of hope in your chest, even as you note the glance that Gajani gives them.

“How about this, Miss Cres,” they say, and point at the sky, quickly lightening as a warning. “It’s near daybreak and I would rather like not to be burned. Invite us hive and we can explain why we’ve come and what part you can play in it. How does that sound?”

The sky lightens by degrees as you wait. Cimrin sounds pleased, happy, even. Gajani even seems to be warming up to the idea, his melody swelling up with a key change. If you turn them away, they’re going to be burn and be mad at you, and then you can’t change your mind. If you let them in, at least you can hear what they have to say before you make a decision.

You know what your pumper wants though. You want it so bad, that you nod, step up to your door and open it to let them in.

“Nice digs,” Cimrin says as they step in. “Where’s your lusus?”

You brush off the pang irritably, and say, “She’s gone.”

You know how to be a good host- you step in to get some juice for your guests, and so you miss the smile they exchange.


	2. Cresce Learns Music

_Cresce Aubade | Arkady | 3 sweeps 8 years | 1500 words  
_

—

When you first got to Arkady, there was enough people people passing by on the street that you had put both hands over your ears and cried until Gajani had bought you a set of earplugs. Moonsrot was so much quieter, and even when there were a bunch of people together, they always all sounded the same low soft notes that was suspicion.

It was different in Arkady! Everyone walked around doing their own thing, no one looked twice at you, and they were all thinking and feeling different things entirely, all the sounds mash up into a terrible terrible ball of noise. The buildings twist up and around and swoop down, and besides the noise everyone makes, it’s actually just noisy! More cars and shuttle buggies pass you in the street in ten minutes than you’ve seen your entire life in Moonrot. Cimrin helps you fit the little foam sponges into your ears and promises you campus will be quieter.

Campus is better than the big city- there’s not so many noisy cars and horns but you still screw your face up and stick your earplugs in when you walk in a room that’s got too many people in it. You do get used to all of the crazy crazy noise, but you never do like it! When you find people you want to be friends with you always make sure to pull them away to the little gardens outside.

You like it better outside, even though it rains half the time and half the time it rains it frosts everything over. It’s quieter there- the sound doesn’t bounce off the walls and get all screechy and loud- even when there’s a lot of people in one place you can just walk away and find someone else to talk to.

You’re going for a walk in one of the little parks on campus, alone this time. Your most favorite spot is a fountain hidden in the hedges. It’s not the moonset over the ocean in Moonsrot but when it frosts over, the ice looks like sparkling fairies and you can play Ice Empress with Camila and Romeli. You’re usually Ice Empress, but sometimes you let them take turns. 

It’s cold today though, and so they didn’t want to come, so when you clamber onto the edge of the fountain, you play pretend all by yourself. You find a rock that looks like a squashed frog to be your Empress’ Lady in Charge, and a thorny stick you decorate with a piece of grass to be your Deep School Liason and set off to find decisions fit for an Ice Empress to make in her domain.

“What’s this?” you say, in your best Empress voice, peering down at a spot on the ground. It’s a dead beetle, turned upside down and unmoving in the gravel. Your Lady in Charge nudges it with the part of the rock that looks like a foot. “It appears to be a murder!” she exclaims, in your lowest, gravelly voice. “It’s Captain Beetleby! He’s been killed.”

Your Deep School Liason gasps. “Oh no!” she says, in your highest voice. “Ice Empress, let me look into his pockets! Don’t dirty your precious hands!”

The Deep School Liason uses a thorn to nudge it. The beetle slides into a crack in the sidewalk and gets lodged there and you spend some time trying to pry it back out, but you give up pretty quickly. You don’t actually want to touch a dead beetle. “Liason! You’re so clumsy!” your Lady in Charge scolds her instead.

“That’s not important,” the Deep School Liason says. “Look what I found in his pockets!” Your two servants meet in the middle to look at the mysterious piece of paper.

“What is it?” you say. “What have you found?”

“Oh, sorry Empress!” your Lady in Charge exclaims. “Captain Beetleby has been money laundering! Look this is a list! He’s got private bank accounts and blackmail material!”

“That scoundrel,” you gasp. “We’ll have to find his moirail and interrogate him for the locations of his stash!”

“A splendid idea!” they both say, only except you can only do one voice at a time, so it sounds like one voice. “Let’s go to their hive immediately.”

“No wait,” you say, pausing, remembering a lesson from your school feeds. “We must follow the money. The stream of money leads to-” you pause. You can’t remember exactly what word Instructor Glaistig used, but you know it means- “bad stuff.”  

You stand and stretch, a little cramped from all the crouching you just did, and go follow the cracks into the pavement, where the stream of money leads out of the fountain grove. You trot on out to see where the cracks lead you to and you wonder what you should discover at the end of the money stream. As you bounce along though, you hear someone. Just one person, in a bit of a sad/happy mood. Then you hear someone start to sing- the instrument you’re hearing,  it’s not someone’s head, it’s a real instrument. You throw aside your Lady in Charge and your Deep School Liason to the side of the road and run to see who’s playing.

You round the corner and see a seadweller, purple fins pulled lazily down as he sprawls across a bench, a guitar in his hands as he strums. He’s in a Torrent uniform and old. Not old old, but he looks like a grown up. His eyes are grey still, the surest sign, but you know that higher castes like you and him can be slow to have their eyes fill in, so maybe he was a full adult? You should be careful still, and you tuck yourself behind a tree to listen.

“Today is gonna be the day, that they’re gonna throw it back to you,” he sings. It’s curious too- he sounds exactly like his instrument, and you listen entranced until he finishes his song. “You’re going to be the one that saves me~”

He sounds like a low strum of satisfaction, as he puts aside the guitar.

“Hey kid,” he says without looking up. “You still there?”

Oops. He did notice you. You untangle yourself from the tree and lift your chin like you’re still playing Ice Empress when he surveys you up and down.

“Well, well, well,” he says in a drawl. “Who is this little eavesdropper I’ve got here?”

You draw yourself up even bigger, as big as you can, indignant. It’s your free hour and you’re still in your uniform. He can’t stop you from being here!

“It’s the park,” you say, propping your fists on your hips. “Anyone can be here. If you didn’t want someone to hear you shouldn’t be so loud.”

He chuckles and raises his hands in surrender.

“You’re right, you’re right,”  he says, and extends his hand. “I’m Peggio. What’s your name?”

You only hesitate a little- handshaking was a grown up thing, but he sounds friendly so you stride forward and put your hand in his. He takes it gently and gives it a shake.

“I’m Cresce,” you say. “I’m a recruit.”

“Yes, cutie,” he says. “I can see that.”

His melody turns to a bounce of bells so you climb up onto the bench next to Peggio to look at his guitar. It’s got a warm golden sheen that glistens in the light, the wood of the neck a deeper brown. The silver bars that line up on the dark wood, not in regular spaces but gather closer as it reaches the hole in the body of the guitar. The bronze strings are really wired coils wound tight into a cord. You drink in every detail and reach a hand out to touch it, your fingers brushing against the strings.

They hum, discordant like a spot of confusion, and you start in surprise.

“I confused it,” you tell Peggio, who just laughs.

“Nah,” he says. “You just gotta press the strings in certain ways to make the right sounds.”

He demonstrates- pressing the strings to the silver bars in a practiced pattern, and when he strums it sounds… happy.

“I want to try!” you exclaim, scooting forward.

Your hands are too small to wrap around the neck like Peggio’s do so he shows you where to press with your fingers and he strums it for you. The strings hurt your fingers, but you smile as the music pours from the instrument.

You want this. You want this more than anything you’ve ever wanted, even more than when you got Cimrin and Gajani to take you from Moonrot.

“Peggio,” you say. He’s in a good mood- you don’t think he’ll refuse you, but duck your head and bat your eyes up at him in the way that made the adults hum with warmth. “Would you teach me how to play?”

Peggio hesitates, then laughs.

“Sure,” he says. “But you have to get your own guitar first.”


	3. Cresce Gets Hit On Inappropriately By Her Mentor so She Takes Adequately Proportional Revenge

_Cresce Aubade | 7 sweeps, 16 years | Arkady | 2453 words | cw: age gap_

—-

Little Stan’s has an open mic night every weekend and they make an excellent spiced cider so you and Peggio always go.

You’ve come often enough that the barista recognizes you when you walk in.

“Hey, Cress!”  she says, flashing you a smile and a little tinkle of pleasure. “You singing tonight?”

You laugh and toss your curls. “Not tonight,” you say as you slide up to the counter to chat. “I can’t sing every week! It’d take all the suspense out of it.”

“Aww,” she says, and leans conspiratorially over the counter. You oblige and lean over to meet her halfway. “Just so you know, you’re the best regular that comes through here.”

You cover your mouth and laugh, glancing back towards the small crowd of people that are already assembled by the stage, some of them tuning their guitars. “Well don’t say it so loud!” you say. “We can’t let them lose hope.”

The barista throws her head back to laugh and you take the opening to glance at her name tag. Sephra. Cerulean. Just high enough that you can’t affect her as well as the lowbloods. It’s good to know that she still appreciates you musically, even without your voodoos.

“Well,” she says. “I hear the last act for tonight is supposed to be some big surprise. Stick around till then, yeah?”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow. Sephra plucks a melody that’s down right mischievous. “What is it?”

You glance back at Peggio, who just looks confused and shrugs, but he sounds nearly giddy. Whatever it is, he’s in on it too. Honestly, he should really know better than to keep things secret from you by now. 

Sephra just puts a finger to her lips. “It’s a secret!” she says, singsong.

“Oh come on, Sephra,” you say. “Please?”

“Here’s your cider,” she says instead, and gives you a wink. You pout and pick up your mug.

“Don’t worry about it so much,” Peggio says, putting a hand on your back to steer you towards a seat near the stage. “All you have to do is wait to see what happens.”

Little Stan’s doesn’t have much of a stage- It’s little more than a raised step at one end of the lounge with just enough room for an upright piano, but it’s a cozy setting for an intimate audience. It’s furnished with wicker seats and quilted pillows thrown everywhere, with fairy lights strung around the ceiling for ambient lighting. There’s maybe twenty people in the small room. People part for Peggio. Arkady’s pretty highblooded but a seadweller is still worth getting out of the way for. He steers you to a bench with a quilt and bunch of cushions thrown onto it and you sit on a pile of cushions, to look at the stage and think.

Peggio’s way too eager, and a little too nervous to be ignorant as to what this surprise is. You scan the audience and the performers- there’s no one else here that he’s close with. This last performance had to be Peggio. He’s going to ask you to be his matesprit or just grace his unworthy self with a date or whatever. You’d be an idiot not to see his intentions. You’ve heard his desire, his jealousy, his possessiveness. You’ve noticed his sour notes of his petty spitefulness when you pull off a chord progression he can’t quite manage, since he never practices, and he gets jealous when you go to practice the piano with Inneni, which he can’t play. You’ve put up with it- he’s the one who taught you guitar, you’ve got a soft spot for him- but you’re not letting him claim any more of you than he’s already had. You don’t care if he’s an adult seadweller now, if he thinks he can embarrass you into accepting a public proposal, you’ll rip him a new one.

It’s hard to pay attention to the performers now that you know what’s coming. You cross your arms and knees and your foot bounces as you watch impatiently. There’s a couple of singers, some spoken word and poetry, and one very enterprising and desperate mime, and as try as you might to relax and just enjoy it, most of the performances tonight aren’t even very good.

Peggio puts an arm around your shoulder, anticipatory and you lean back into him to listen to what he has to say.

“Not exactly the best performances we’ve seen, eh?” he says and you roll your eyes.

“Definitely,” you say.

“I wonder what the big secret at the end is,” he lies. “I hope it’s good.” He’s an excellent liar- he’s Torrent, he should be, but at this range, his excitement just blares like a trumpet. You wonder again if he thinks you’re an idiot. He knows you can hear him.

Peggio excuses himself to go to the bathroom at the beginning of the second to last performance and you rearrange yourself on the cushions and roll your eyes. Wow, subtle.

You sit, agitated, through the final performance, a spoken word piece about Arkady’s frost reflecting the frost of their spurned love by a long faced blueblood, which maybe Peggio should take a few cues from.

“And finally,”  the MC says. “We have the final act of the night. A wonderful ode to a wonderful lady; Peggio!”

When he walks back in, he’s in a proper suit, with an indigo rose pinned to his lapels. He must have stowed his guitar in the back with the employees before you came because he’s holding it now.

“Good evening,” he says nodding around the room. “Today I have a song I wrote for a wonderful girl I know.”

He looks across the room and meets your eyes and nods. You can see people pulling out their phones to film this fiasco. Sephra steps around out of the bar with her phone out.

“Cress, this is for you.”

When he strums and starts walking across the room towards you, you know those chords. You absolutely know those chords. You wrote that refrain for a collab he wanted to do three perigees ago, when he wanted to write lyrics.

Now he was using it for this? Your face flushes bright indigo, but not from embarrassment as he opens up his mouth and sings.

“There’s a winter’s kiss in your eyes, but I just wanna hold you close.” He steps through the crowd, as people scramble to pull their legs out of the way. “There’s a frost bite to your lips, but they’re the things I want the most~”

You sink your face into your hands. Okay, now you’re embarrassed. You don’t look up until he kneels at your feet and moves into the bridge.

“I wanna touch you, I wanna hold you tight.” He smiles wide as you peek out from behind your hands. You’re going to kill him. You can hear how pleased he is. “You’re the morning frost and what a delicate sight!”

“Ooooh,” he warbles, “I just wanna hold you, hold you tight. The cold may bite, but the warmth of our touch is the light of my lifeee~”

He strums a few times then gets to his feet and gestures for you to head to the stage and you shake your head. He’s going to insist, and you’ll do it then, but only because it’s going to look better for you and worse for him in the aftermath. You’re right, he replays the few chords and bobbles up and down in an awkward parody of a dance.

“Come on, Cress,” he whispers.

“Peggio!” you exclaim.

“It’s not that bad, come on!”

You stand then, and step onto the stage so Peggio can finish his refrain to you, with your hands still covering your face.

“Your absence from my side is never gonna feel alright,” Peggio says. “I can’t just reminisce

Won’t you be my winter’s kiss~”

He leans behind the piano and pulls out a bouquet of the same indigo roses that he’s got pinned to his lapel, and he somehow manages to still sound hopeful as he holds out the bouquet towards.

“What do you say, Cress?” he asks. “Make it official? Be my matesprit?”

The room bursts into applause. You wait a beat for the noise to fade, then shake your head.

“Peggio, I’m so sorry,” you say. “I can’t.”

You haven’t broken his heart just yet- you hear a flare of jealousy.

“Is there someone else?” he says, “Is it Inneni?”

“No, no,” you say. “I just… never saw you like that. I’ve known you since I was a kid, but you look exactly the same. You were always more- more like a lusus figure.”

The audience breaks into an outroar- you hear shock, delight, the sour twang of schaudenfreude, an orchestra only you can hear. And that’s when you hear Peggio’s heart break, loud, disbelief, hurt, horror, and you press a hand to your mouth again, this time to hide the little vengeful smile that crawls onto your lips

“I’m so, so sorry, Peggio,” you say, and at least you still sound genuine. “I never meant to hurt you.”

The bouquet of indigo roses drops to the floor.

“B-but all the gifts and flowers,” he stammers. “I got you so much stuff. What about those earrings.”

He gestures to them now- you’re wearing his seventh wriggling day present, a pair of beautiful drop pendant earrings. Sapphire. Close to your hue, but not quite.

Your hands fly to your ears and you start to take them off.

“These?” you ask surprised. “Oh, Peggio, if I had known these were anything but a wriggling day present, I wouldn’t have taken it.” That’s a lie too, but that’s also something you’re better at than him. You hold them out to him.

“Oh, and that’s actually my song,” you say. “I’ll just take that back too.”

You actually see tears well up in his eyes as he snatches the earrings out of your hands and runs out the door. You cringe. He took that hard.

You turn to the crowd and give them a little wave.

“Hi, guys,” you say. “Sorry about that! It’s downer note on such a great evening, but there’s just no way to turn down a public proposal without it being awkward.” You tuck a curl of hair back behind your ear. “I know I said I wouldn’t perform tonight, but maybe I could do a song to make up for it?”

You lean forward to see if the MC approves, and they light up.

“Well!” they say. “I wouldn’t say no to that, would you guys?”

There’s a smattering of applause, as the audience holds their judgement until after you perform. You borrow a guitar and pick one of your older songs, and by the time you’re done, the audience is buzzing with pleasure. You smile, take your bows and applause and step off the stage.

“Woof,” you say, adjusting your coat as you turn to leave, approaching the bar again. Sephra looks sheepish and hands you another cider.

“It’s on the house,” she says. “Sorry, I didn’t know things were like that or I would have told you. You two always seemed so close!”

You sigh.

“It hurts, you know?” you say. “I had no idea he felt like that about me. And he taught me to play my first guitar. But this way he got the message.”

“Oof,” she says. “That’s rough.”

“Maybe we can still be friends,” you say. “But I kinda doubt it. Hey, can you send me the video you took of Peggio’s performance?”

“Why do you want it?” she asks, taking her phone out.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said that it was my song,” you say. “He put words to it but I never heard them till tonight so I’d like that, at least.”

“Well sure,” she says. “Give me your email.”

—

– melodisingDiscourse [MD] began pestering islandMisslieness [IM]! –

MD: | soooo well that was awkward. |

MD: | you want to tell me what you were thinking? |

IM: fuck off I don’t want to talk to you.

IM: you know I was feelIng flushed, that’s your whole thIng.

IM: why the fuck dId you do that.

IM: you made me look like a fool.

MD: | you really didn’t need the help tbh!! |

MD: | i gave you those chords perigees ago and you use it for this? |

MD: | and your lyrics weren’t even good. it sounded like a first draft. |

MD: | and it’s not like you told me about making a public spectacle of your feelings either so i could tell you it was a bad idea. |

MD: | i knew you were flushed, i didn’t think it’d get to that point. |

MD: | i tolerated it because you were my friend. |

IM: but lIke a lusus? you had to say that In front of everyone?

MD: | how else am i supposed to see you, Peggio? |

MD: | you watched me grow up. |

IM: you won’t even own up to It, IncredIble.

IM: you’ve never cared about anythIng but your own musIc and what you want.

IM: you’re just selfIsh.

MD: | oh and just in case you feel like throwing this in my face some day? |

MD: | i have the video of what happened tonight. |

MD: | i don’t think you want me to post it on Trollbook. |

IM: serIously??

IM: now you’re blackmaIlIng me?

IM: bItch.

MD: | should have figured that one out before you proposed. |

– islandMisslieness [IM] has blocked melodisingDiscourse [MD]! –

The computer beeps ominously as Peggio’s blocked message appears on your screen and you take a breath and sigh. You knew this was going to happen someday, but you don’t like the way it went down. It wasn’t like you didn’t care about him, but everyone knew he was a deadbeat and you’re not hooking yourself to that. Not to mention, if you had to listen to his whining jealousy every time you did something cool, you’d jump out a window.

Plus, if you had been gentler in turning him down, he could have pressed the issue or thrown the weight of his blood color around. You’ve had so many lessons on power balances and the many ways that breaking a relationship could go, bad and good, and from what you can see, this was the best way for you. A clean break and he was out, forever.

It still doesn’t feel great, to lose him though. You brush away a few tears and set to work on your song.

A week later, you upload Winter’s Kiss to your soundgrub and grin as the likes start pouring in.


	4. Cress: Find Yourself. Kind of.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the 12th Perigee ball, Cresce Aubade meets her signmate for the first time, and things do not go well.

**Cresce Aubade | 10 Sweeps, 22 years | At the 12th Perigee Ball  
** —- **  
**

You take a deep breath, smiling, and drink in the applause. A venue like the 12th Perigee Ball comes around only, well- twice a sweep, and you’ve never had a live audience this big. The sound soars around you, the cadence of claps only rivaled by the brass band of the sound’s of the crowd’s appreciation. It almost drowns out the rest of the crowd’s desires. Like hunger- probably eyeing the buffet bar, longing- perhaps pining for lost lovers glimpsed in the crowd, and even grumpiness and relief, that your song is over.

Well, the crowd wants what it wants! And most the crowd likes you. You give the crowd a glittering smile and toss out a wave before you turn to leave the stage, tossing a sincere thank you to the accompanying band and accepting the compliments of those standing near the steps.

You spare a glance to the crowd to see if you can find Melete’s enormous fur robe in the crowd, and find out what she thinks of that. You had written it, after all, in a fit of pique after the incident with the after hours office break in and the tiff about recycling notes. You hadn’t made any obvious references to what happened, and tuned it up a bit so that it was a little more mainstream, but you wonder if she recognizes the inspiration.

There’s a little room behind the stage for performers to prepare. It’s not much- it’s got a couple seats a large mirror for anyone to check how they looked before they went on stage, and a set of lockers for the performer’s things. You left a thermos of fruit tea there- the song’s left you a little parched.

No, Melete would not realize. The biggest reference you made to it was jumping out the window and she had no idea you had done that. And  _no one_  had to know that was true.

Another troll is the room, waiting to take up the stage. A ceruleanblood, looking out of place in an ill fitting suit, with a lip and several horn piercings, and fiddling with an electric guitar.  He flashes a nervous smile at you, just brimming with anxious excitement. You give him two thumbs up.

“You’re going to do great,” you encourage him, pushing enough power behind your words that he’ll feel it. He smiles back at you, the quick staccato of his melody easing off to something smoother.

“Thanks,” he says, relieved. “You did great yourself.” You beam back at him, until he steps onto the stage. He’ll remember you, you’re pretty sure.

If he was this nervous, surely he hadn’t done so many shows before. The 12th Perigee Ball wasn’t quite so exclusive when it came to performances, but certainly standards should be a little tighter.

You unscrew your thermos and take a sip when you hear someone else approach the room, a discordant jangle of unpleasant feelings. You sort out low tones of anger and disgust and a warble of grim satisfaction. Who could be performing with that sort of feeling? You check your lipstick quickly in the mirror to make sure nothing is smeared before straightening your shoulder. You ready a quick word that could set someone’s mind at ease, and a smile to welcome the newcomer.

You’re not prepared for what you find.

She’s wearing a simple dress, down to her ankles with a slit up to her knee, but in a rich velvet so purple it was almost black. Her neck and wrists sparkle with jewels that drop near to her waist, white crystals in a balls and drops and strung together on fine lace and silk threads. Her outfit makes you feel under dressed.  

But that’s not the worst of it.

She’s got a thick face full of paint of the Mirthful, thick greys smeared with impeccable lines on white, but the resemblance is unmistakable. Her cheeks are outlined with a grey that gives her more cheekbone than she has, but that was the soft shape of your jaw and the broad curve of your nose. Her horns are an exact mirror of yours. You have the suspicion that if you reached out and brushed off the paint on her cheek, you’d find a mole in the exact mirror spot as yours. Her eyes are surrounded with a grey that makes them look like they’re set deeper into your face, but she fixes you with a glare of bright indigo eyes of your own exact hue.

You feel yourself knocked off kilter, staring back at some strange, twisted reflection of yourself. One that’s inexplicably angry at you, you realize with some shock, as the thrum of her anger grows, for all that she’s not moving.

She’s furious, to be standing in this room with you. She hates you. It’s practically deafening, like it shouldn’t come from one person, the brass horns of fury and high, screeching strings of… grief?

The soundscape changes in an instant, the silence of shock, then the thud of anger as she takes a step forward.

You stiffen, straightening your spine against her approach, even as you note that she has muscle under the ripple of black velvet, more than you. There’s a guard backstage, but is that enough if things get that- she halts in front of you, unsmiling but you can hear low flutes announce satisfaction.

She knows you’re afraid. You pull your chin up further, glaring down at her- you’re taller than her, or maybe you’re just wearing higher heels. You refuse to be intimidated, you push back, drawing on anger as your cheeks color underneath your makeup.

She smirks, that flute’s satisfaction flowing easy until there’s that note of grief again and mixed with longing. The second you ponder it, it disappears again into anger.

She doesn’t just look like you. She has your powers. She can hear what you hear, and she can hear you.

A signmate? She’s clearly older than you- you’ve barely begun to shed your baby greys. An ancestor?

For all that you were surrounded by signmates and ancestors on campus, everyone knew that was because the IPC maintained and tinkered their gene banks to create the best soldiers and spies. You had been found and recruited growing up in the middle of nowhere. It had never occured to you there might be another living troll in your line.

Suddenly, at your very core, you understand what Melete must feel about Nomizo.

“Who are you?” you suddenly demand, and switch your wetware to ‘record’.

The other Aubade laughs, a low chuckle under her breath, though she doesn’t take her eyes off yours. She’s genuinely amused but the sound of flitting flutes rather feels like the sound of wriggler songs at the start of horror films.

“Why,” she says slowly. “I would have thought that would be obvious.”  She even sounds like you, you note with a flare of anger. A touch lower in pitch, you think, but there’s a musical lilt to her tone. If she was a singer, on top of everything else- you wouldn’t be replaced by some copycat.

Your fists ball up at your sides. You will not be brawling in the back room of the 12th Perigee Ball, with someone who looks exactly like you. That’s the sort of thing that draws paparazzi and puff pieces in gossip rags.

“And really, Cresce,” she murmurs with another ripple of a flute’s amusement at anger and shock at the use of your name. It’s not the stage name you made sure was put into the program. “You really shouldn’t be angry with the truth. What was that drivel you sung on stage? In front of everyone?” She tilts her head to examine you and steps to your side. She moves like a lion, with a sort of coiled anticipation.

You step to mirror her. You refuse to be circled like prey, even though her words sting like hell. And where did she get your name from?

“Ugh,” you say, as your mouth curls in disgust. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those hipsters who can’t appreciate art if it’s popular.”

A note of anger. You’ll have to review to see if it was anger at your attitude or the assumption you made.

“Impudent,” she chastises you softly, though you can feel the danger in her flashing eyes. “Careful how you speak to your betters.”

Your betters. You snarl. It’s not the sort of thing you usually do. You had put hard work into your image as friendly and kind to everyone, but this other Aubade who strolled in as if she owned everything didn’t deserve it. You toss your curls and straighten up again, drawing up your chin and to look down at the other Aubade like she was dirt on the street.

“Your  _name_ ,” you bite, haughty as you’ve ever been. The rhythm of her anger thunders with the loud thumping of your pumper, but when she moves its slow and deliberate.

She extends a finger and wags it at you, shaking her head.

“Tsk, tsk,” she says. “I don’t think you deserve to ask me that.”

Your eyes narrow. This other Aubade is using pressure tactics, cornering you alone, with the upper hand in information while constantly positioning herself as superior and deserving. It’s designed to set up a dynamic where you’re always off balance, always defending your sense of worth until you’re too worn out to realize what you’ve given away.

Darkbone’s Assault, they called it in class. This Aubade’s an interrogarroter too.

You lose it. You break out of your circling to lunge, seizing a handful of jewels, and shoving her backwards into the lockers. There’s a cymbal crash in your ears, shock and anger at once as her eyes widen once in shock as you snarl in her face.

“I’ll ask what I  _want_ ,” you snap. “And I don’t think I asked for your  _opinion_ , now did I?”

Her fingers close around your throat, and she uses your neck as leverage to yank your head down and to the side. You stagger to the side, trying not to tip over when she pulls you upright again and slams you into the same lockers you pushed her into.

“Now,” she murmurs, her voice just above a whisper. You can barely hear it over her fury, and you know you answer in the same anger as you start to wrestle her fingers off your neck. “Cresce. Listen carefully. You are a disgrace to our line. You dance with rabble. Your music is terrible. You pander for validation. You’re not even Mirthful. If I were you, I would tread very carefully, lest… someone decides to do some pruning.”

She presses her fingers into your windpipe with a terrible, terrible joy as a gurgle escapes your throat, and just as you get a grip on her fingers, she lets go, her face stony, as her cacophony starts up again.

You stumble away, too incensed for words. How dare she?  _How dare she_?! Your necklace pokes your collar uncomfortably, and when you touch it, you discover she left her finger dents in it when she tried to strangle you. You tear it off and crumple the metal in your fist. The stone pops out of its misshapen setting and tumbles behind you and you toss the whole thing to the ground. You’d never be able to wear it again anyway, not without thinking of this moment.

“Cresce,” she says, quietly, quieter than her feelings, but it’s the only thing you can make sense of. Her melody is a rage, a cacophony you don’t have the wherewithal to sort through. She steps forward again, but you’ve had enough. You grab your thermos and flee.

You want to go to the bathroom to see what the damage has been, but you’re not about to head somewhere quiet and private for the other Aubade to follow you again. Instead you step into the ballroom, where it seems like the whole planet is dancing. No one notices your entrance, not with the ceruleanblood with the suit shredding his guitar. That suits you just fine, for once.

You keep to the sides of the ballroom, near the balconies and the shadier corners, until you find an empty one, and pull out your mirror compact to check the damage. You’re missing your necklace, of course, and your neck has a few bumps and scratches that weren’t present before, noticeable little dots of indigo against the light grey of your skin. No bruising though, which you consider a positive. You dab foundation onto the most obvious marks, wincing as they sting a little. It would be fine- you’d wash off when you returned hive.

Your makeup is fine, but your hair is a mess. You can’t really take care of it without both your hands and a mirror, so you take out your hair tie and let your curls fall out where they will. At least this way it looks more purposeful, and less like you had fought someone. When you’re done, your hands are still shaking. You unscrew your thermos and take a few deep draughts of the lukewarm tea but it barely helps in calming you down. Your throat is sore, but nothing worth taking to the medicullers. It’d fade in a bit and the tea helps.

Do you go hive? No. The hive was empty and you definitely don’t want to be alone right now. You could find Rumisa- she’d chatter at you until you forgot about it- no. No. Rumisa adored subbjugulators. If the other Aubade approached you wouldn’t be able to trust she wouldn’t shower her with affection as well.

One of the other sops you picked up through the night? No, they liked you because you were fun and made them feel good about themselves. None of them would like you if you were the least bit upset, and none of them would stick around if the other Aubade approached.

No, you’d find Melete. She was oblivious enough to perhaps overlook the obvious signs of distress and your missing necklace, and if the other Aubade approached, well. You’re at least certain she wouldn’t mock you for it, not with how she is with Nomizo.  And if she doesn’t want your company, well, you’re not really sure.

You do know how to play to an audience. You could be silent, for once. Surely she wouldn’t begrudge you that.


	5. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cress receives her implants.

It's not that you don't like the cold. You've always loved Arkady for it. Summers were over quick, and sky was almost always held the promise of snow. There was nothing quite like standing still and letting the cold stillness after a snow storm sink seep slowly through your skin. It's not something you do often- your friends just don't get why you'd want to be cold but there was just something thrilling about it that you'd never put your finger on. 

The mediculler's office is cold.  You don't shiver when a breeze passes through, not when it passes by on the bare skin of your feet, not when it trifles with the hem of your surgery gown, and not when it stirs up the back of your neck. It's sterile, painted a plain white with a green border running at the top of the room. White is an excellent color to keep something you need to bleach often anyway. Mediculler Ricket presses a cold wipe into your hand, and gestures for you to use it on your face.

"Take it all off, dearie," she murmurs. "It's an infection risk there, when you're getting implants so close to your face." You've seen Mediculler Ricket before. She's a dumpy cerulean, with capable, soft hands, and enough nullification to shove out a lot of the mind dipping that comes with working in Torrent. It's not enough for you. You hear her clear as a bell- well. If a bell sounded like a disinterested tuba player who didn't care enough about the song to stay on pitch. She sounds like she'd be more interested in a bowl of oatmeal. 

You smile a thin razor smile back at her as you take the wipe and start swiping off your make up. You had made extra sure to put on extra lipstick today and it was all coming off in black smears on the little wipe. 

“Besides the nullification module and the download jack,” Professor Timbor says. “you’ll also be receiving wetware that allows you to adjust the volume of, and record what you’re hearing.” Professor Timbor, your personal mentor who took a keen interest in your progress and your ability to parse emotions into meaning. You took pride in the interested clatter of bells every time you showed them your work. You like it less to hear it now. "This operation should allow you some more control over what you hear and what you don't- I know that bothers you sometimes.” 

Sure, you knew this day was coming. Sure, all the adult Torrents had something or other. You’d all laughed the first time Kokoro had choked on his tongue after trying to voodoo Professor Symphy to get you all out of the day’s homework. But it was definitely different looking it in the face. It was a rite of passage. You did it, and it was over. You had even looked forward to what you'd be getting. Hearing everyone could get so tiring! 

“It does,” you say, gesturing to your head and bite your tongue on how you'd take it over being there right then. You take a breath and to your irritation, it comes out shaky. You smile brightly. 

“It’s perfectly normal to have nerves about an operation like this,” Mediculler Ricket says, smiling. You wonder what's going on in her head. Her tune hasn't changed at all. “But don’t worry. You won’t feel a single thing. We’ll put you and when you wake up again, all you have to worry about is recovering.” 

“And you’re indigo,” Timbor says. “You’ll have a much better time with the surgery than the Scimitar recruits. Heavens. Can you imagine?”  

They chuckle, with just an edge of actual mirth, that makes you want to stab them just a little. You smile along. 

“Are you ready for this?” 

You pull the last smear of make up off your face and look up at them, barefaced. 

"Yes," you say and you nod. 

You're not. When you give Ricket the wipe back, you’re sure to leave a smear of lipstick on her hand. It's petty, but you don't care. It's not like she does. She wipes her hand and moves on like she doesn't even notice. 

"Lie back now," she says and places a mask over your face. "Just count backwards." 

You wonder what you sound like, as you comply.

"Ten." 

You're the only person you've never been able to hear. 

"Nine." 

That tight knot in your belly, that was an emotion, wasn't it? 

"Eight." 

What would that be? 

"Sev...en..." 

\-----

You wake up face down in slime with an enormous headache. It's not your own recuperacoon- there's a ridge in it that keeps the back half of your head from being submerged. 

"Eugh," you say, grimacing as you push yourself up from the reclining position. 

It's a different room than the one you first went under in, if only because you're in a recuperacoon instead of lying on the platform you had been wheeled in on. Same white and green, same cabinets. 

You're still in the surgery gown. The slime sticks to your hands but you scrape it off on the lip of the recuperacoon until it's mostly clean. You place your fingers, starting at your temple and let them wander backwards. Your bangs are soaked in slime, but most of your hair is still pulled into a ponytail. Behind your ear though, your fingers slip from the fine texture of hair to smooth skin. They shaved your head, just under it, like a bad undercut. A pad of gauze is taped behind both your ears. That's not _too_ bad. You'd have to wear your hair down for awhile, maybe wear it short for a bit when it grows out some more to keep things even, but worst things have happened. 

Pashei had to wear a veil for a perigee, after the implants in his cheeks had swollen up and Frenom had shaved her head entirely bald because she had come out with two stripes shaved around her horns

"Don't touch it too much," a voice says behind you and you jump. You turn your head sharply and immediately regret it, your hands flying to the back of your head. 

Professor Timbor chuckles softly as they get up from a seat from the other corner of the room. Had they just been watching this whole time? You glance up at them, shocked. No one ever surprises you. You always hear them coming. 

"Sorry," they say. "I've never surprised you before." 

Everything is.... silent. Professor Timbor smiles down at you, but there's no bells, there's no horns, no strings, or brass, or drums. Are you just supposed to trust what their face and mouth are saying? Is this what people do on the regular???

"I- I... I can't hear anything?" you stammer out. You never stutter! You clutch your ears. "What's going on?" 

"Calm down," Timbor says, their voice warm and syrupy as they crouch down to eye level with your recuperacoon. There's nothing else to judge them on. 

"I am calm," you snap, scrambling up on the ridge you had been leaning up against. "Don't patronize me." There's nothing to _hear_ even though you should be hearing more. It's much much more disorienting than you expected. To have someone in front of you, you just couldn't hear? It was like an alien, or a ghost or something. This was wrong, bone deep and radiating from the inside out.

"Then listen," they insist. "We just turned down the volume all the way. You have the capacity to turn it back up. You have the wetware for it now." 

You stop moving, your arms trembling. You blink, twice. Your eyes are watering, you notice. "Then what do I do?" you ask quietly. 

"Just think about the back of your head," they say. "Focus it and think about a volume slider. And then slide it up." 

It's hard to focus on anything. You don't want to close your eyes with Timbor so close, but... you really want to turn your powers back on. 

You close your eyes and let your thoughts trail to the back of your head and picture a volume slide, burnished steel with black paint, the one you have on your stereo at hive. With an invisible hand you push it up to max. 

Suddenly you hear exactly where Timbor is, and what they're feeling. Bells. Bells ringing high with curiosity, plucked staccato strings of amusement, warm, mellow drum that quickly fades away. You sit up straighter and open your eyes. 

"It worked," you say, suddenly much calmer. Professor Timbor chuckles. 

"Better, right?" They say. "You're to stay for a few more nights for observation but otherwise you're fine. You're free to wander around the medical wing so long as you let the medicullers know but if I were you, I'd rest up some more. We'll go over the other functions of your wetware later." 

You don't want to nod so you say okay and sink back into the sopor.    
  



	6. Rubatosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rubatosis: The unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.
> 
> \---
> 
> Cress encounters a bug in her wetware. And also big time Anxiety.

 ____

 

_Cresce Aubade | 11 sweeps, 22 years | Arkady | 952 Words_

  
—  
  
Bumping your head is not the end of the world for an indigo. That’s what you remind yourself, from the floor of the office kitchen, the back of your head aching. Was this the most glamorous thing you’ve ever done? No. Was it the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done? Also no. You’d survive, and- you check the floor that you slipped on.

Someone spilled the dish soap on the tile, and sent you spinning like a cartoon character, leaving you with a bump on the head. You give it a rub as you sit up- it’s not so bad now that you’re upright.

“Cresce, you alive in there?” Kokoro pops his head in through the door and winces when he spots you on the ground. “Oof. Thought I heard a bang.”

Real genius he was.

“I’m okay!” you chirp, rubbing your head sheepishly. The throbbing in your head isn’t bad really- already it’s more of a dull ache than concussion material. You’d be fine soon enough. “It looks like someone spilled soap on the floor and didn’t clean it up.”

“Well here,” Kokoro says, extending a hand for you to grab, which you grasp and pull yourself up when you freeze. You can’t hear him. When you look at him, you only see a warm smiling face and the rest is silence. It wasn’t as though he was particularly duplicitous on average, but you couldn’t be _sure_ like this. Then his brows furrow.

“Cresce?” he asks, and you realize you’ve still got a grip on his hand with a smile frozen on your face. You snatch your hand back.

“Oh sorry!” you exclaim. “I just remembered something I forgot. But I gotta run- thanks again!”

You don’t wait for an answer, and make a beeline for the bathroom.

The world has gone suddenly, startlingly mute. The silence is suffocating. You pass by the holding area and there’s not even a whiff of resentment or anger or even any fear. You walk quickly, straining for any noise. Papers are shifting, pens are clicking, people are muttering in quiet conversations to keep from disturbing anyone else- or maybe to keep from being overheard? You don’t know. Your breathing sounds loud in your ears. Did you hit your wetware slider by accident? It wasn’t the blow to your head, was it?

You pause for a moment, close your eyes, focus on the back of your head, and turn up the volume.

Still, there was only crushing, crushing silence.

So crushing, it feels like you can’t breathe properly. You take in the air and push it back out, but is anything even happening? Oh, this is panic. The same sort of thing that assaulted you when you first woke up from your wetware surgery, the same sort of thing that happened after Melete nulled you. But no, this is much much worse. This time you’re at work!

You can’t do this in public.

You push past the feeling and hurry towards the bathroom where you can get a little privacy to sort this out. It’s empty, thank the empress, as you burst into it, take refuge in a stall and try to take deeper breaths.

You’re alone, which is good, because you could just pretend the silence was because of the lack of people, instead of something being _wrong_ with you. You need to inform Timbor, so they can move your interviews off the docket until you can get your head checked. What sort of lousy wetware broke after a single blow to the head, that wasn’t even that bad? You tuck your arms behind your neck and breathe into your knees, straining for some sort of sound. You catch a rhythm, steady, loud, and for a fleeting moment, you think you’ve caught a sound from beyond the bathroom before you realize it’s in time with the throb in your chest that’s your pumper. You’ve never heard yourself, so to speak, and while you’ve always wondered, this was not what you meant! Not at all.

What if this was forever? What if the wetware messed with something that would never be fixed. What if Timbor said that meant you weren’t allowed to be Torrent anymore. Lyrian could replace you! Maera wouldn’t be working for you, technically any more, so there was that. Would Melete make time for someone who wasn’t even Torrent anymore? What would you even do? Torrents didn’t get discharged! You need to text Timbor, something, anything, but you’re frozen stiff, just trying to breathe.

You’re not sure how long it’s been before someone opens the bathroom door. You jump. You’d have heard them coming on any other day.

Still silence, except for the footsteps on tile, then the squeak of a stall door. The sound of… someone using a toilet. The unrolling toilet paper, the shuffle of pants being pulled up to a waist and the zip of a fly. More footsteps, then the twist of a faucet, running water, paper towels, and then, finally, the door again.

Laughter bursts from your chest. Wild. That’s how you feel. A little crazy, even.

Were you going to sit in the bathroom forever, listening to people use the toilet? For some reason, listening so intently to someone perform that particular ritual made you feel somewhat better, but you’re not doing this again if you can help it.

You pull out your phone and give Timbor a text. This would be fine!

This would be fine.

 

 


End file.
